


To Noise Making (Sing)

by yournewflame



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV), The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister (2010)
Genre: Anne's lovers through hozier songs, F/F, SO GAY, This is no good, don't worry anne/ann is my number one best love this just seemed important, un beta'd SORRY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yournewflame/pseuds/yournewflame
Summary: A ficlet series of Anne Lister’s lovers, as seen through the eyes of Hozier songs because I am 98% convinced Anne Lister ghostwrote all his tunes about women in her life.I'm not even a little bit sorry. (maybe i am)





	1. Eliza Raine: Like Real People Do

_“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips_

_We should just kiss like real people do”_

\- Like Real People Do,

Hozier

 

* * *

 

There are moments now and again, where Anne feels as though she’s hurtling towards something.

She just can’t, for all her brains, work out what that something is.

 

 

* * *

 

They hadn’t fit in, neither of them, not from the moment term had begun.

Eliza was dark, with jet black hair and eyes and skin far darker than anyone at the school had seen before. Rumours had swirled, not that Anne had paid them any mind, but the words _illegitimate_ and _half-caste_ were hard ones to ignore when repeated as often as they were.

And Anne. Well. Anne had never fit in. Growing up she was always far too much like her brother Samuel for people’s liking. Too rough, or too gruff, too busy to stop and take on the ladylike affect so expected of her. The girls at school viewed her with an air of interested disdain; and it came as no surprise to her- nor to Eliza- when they had been assigned to ‘The Slope’, the small attic dormitory a floor above that of their peers. Indeed, it suited them both well. They grew close quickly, compounded by their social and physical isolation and a growing sense of something lingering between them.

She and Eliza spent nights curled up together, long after final checks, reading from books of poetry or philosophy. Anne showed Eliza the code she was developing in her diary; Eliza showed her how to properly conjugate french verbs. Hours spent side by side, growing ever closer.

It’s hard to feel quite so much like an outsider when there’s someone right next to you on the outside.

 

* * *

There are moments now and again, pauses where the air seems to still around them, where Anne feels as though she’s hurtling towards something. She just can’t, for all her brains, all the knowledge she tries to cram in that head of hers, work out what that something is.

She can just feel it coming when Eliza’s hand catches hers as they ascend the stairs to bed each night.

Or when she crawls into Eliza’s bed late into the evening, escaping from the cold attic air into the warm arms of her friend.

In those moments when their heads drift closer and closer together as they talk, until Anne can see every minute detail on Eliza’s face and feel warm air on hers.

It comes hurtling ever closer when they talk about their future; make grand, hazy plans for Eliza to live with the Lister family after school, to travel together and see the world; when it feels as though they are planning something altogether more important than simple travel arrangements.

She can feel it, this overwhelming sense, an unexpected depth of emotion, in those times she finds herself staring at Eliza in unexpected places at unexpected times.

In the mornings as she climbs out of bed, and the window shows the silhouette of a body that makes Anne’s breath catch for a moment. As she stares at the Eliza’s lips while the girl is speaking speaking, barely noticing she’s doing so until a teasing voice cuts through her thoughts. She catches herself daydreaming, _constantly,_ of warm arms and soft legs tangling with hers and oh. _oh._

 

* * *

Their first kiss is soft, nervous, and almost accidental.

They’d been talking, heads drifting ever closer together, and suddenly, they weren’t talking at all. For a few seconds they just stare quietly at each other and then Anne, gathering up all the bravado she can, slowly edges her lips onto Eliza’s.

And that’s it. There is no terror or fear of what they’ve done, no running to the chapel or the headmistress to cry about the oddity or sin of what has occurred. They should be scared of what they’ve done, Anne knows that. She knows it that first night, and on the nights after, when kisses get bolder and longer and even when the girls find things tumbling far beyond kissing. This is not what normal people do, she knows.

But she and Eliza have never pretended to be normal, and the world has yet to treat them as though they were. And so they kiss that night, and every night after that; feeling just as normal and abnormal as they always had.

 

* * *

 

Anne still feels, sometimes, as though she’s hurtling towards something. But now, she knows exactly what it is.


	2. Isabella Norcliffe: Dinner and Diatribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Isabella Norcliffe: Dinner and Diatribes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: potential trigger warning for alcoholism

_“I’d suffer Hell if you’d tell me_

_What you’d do to me tonight”_

_\- Dinner and Diatribes,_

_Hozier_

 

* * *

Anne has taken lovers since Eliza, of course, but none like Isabella Norcliffe. No, Isabella- _Tib_ \- was fire. She burnt hot to the touch against Anne’s skin in a way she had never felt before.

The nights they spent together, sneaking into bed long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep was something of an awakening to Anne. She hadn’t had a lover that lasted more than a few weeks since those early days with Eliza; and the events with lovers since were often relegated to quick jaunts in drawing rooms during visits, or maybe on a long carriage ride between her rooms and wherever that week’s paramour happened to reside. Travel had, until Tib, suited Anne well. She could stay a while in a city, explore its rich culture and history, mingle in its higher society, debauch (although in her mind, _debauch_ was a strong word- Anne was doing nothing but unlocking something that in many young women seemed to lie dormant until they crossed her path) some of the more interesting ladies in the circles she moved in, and move on to the next city or country that took her fancy.

But something about Isabella Norfliff stuck. She was intelligent and vivacious; able to spar with Anne mentally on long walks through the city, and was both wealthy and well-connected enough that Anne thought maybe a longer connection might be possible. That, and- well. Anne was too much of a lady for great detail; but with Tib a great many  _kisses_ were soon added to her diary. 

 

* * *

 

It helps that Tib views their courtship just as amorously as Anne does. Regularly, Anne looks over during a conversation to find the woman's cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming before she leans forward to conspiratorially whisper something simply  _filthy_ in Anne's ear- filthy enough to make Anne blush and excuse them both as quickly as possible from whatever company they're with.

This isn't too much of a bother to Anne, honestly- though Tib holds good connections, Anne finds many of her friends rather dull. Excusing them both to far more enjoyable pastimes is no skin off the nose of either woman, it seems. 

 

* * *

 

It soon becomes clear, however, that Tib’s growing love of drink may pose a small issue in a continuing union. Their trysts are soon overtaken by a sort of drunken rapture, sudden fits of snoring during lovemaking, and a surprisingly fiery battle of wills Anne finds herself locked in against Tib's ever-growing affection for whisky.

Still, Anne pushes these thoughts quickly to the side when Tib catches her alone, a gleam in her eye that has all doubts fleeing from Anne’s head in exchange for thoughts far more amorous.

Tib, for all her drinking, is still a wonder. She's brazen and bold in her sounds, the way she keens against Anne’s fingers each night; and for a while, Anne thinks to herself, this could very well be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, inbeta'd and unresearched. yikes.


	3. Mariana Lawton: From Eden

“ _Babe, there’s something wretched about this  
_ _Something so precious about this_  
_Oh what a sin_ ”

\- From Eden,

Hozier 

* * *

Anne had thought she’d loved Eliza. Had loved the moments she’d shared with past lovers, even if the affection she held for the women themselves was only fleeting. She’d toyed with the idea that she loved Tib, even in those last few wretched months where Tib spent more time snoring the drink off than she did with Anne.

But Mariana Belbombe was another thing entirely. From the moment their eyes had met across the drawing room of Doctor Belcombe’s home, Anne knew she’d met someone all together more significant than she could put into words.

For all she thought she knew of love before, it was nothing compared to the utter havoc wreaked upon her heart by Mariana Belcombe. From the moment their paths crossed, Anne began falling- properly, truly, _finally_ \- in love. Night after night they would lie together; either at the Belcombe home or Shibden; in York or London or wherever they decided they needed to be that week.

They planned for their future and it was set in stone in a way none of the plans she’d held with past lovers had been. These were plans of sacrament, of rings and wills and a shared bed and a sanctity of vows she had until then only dreamed of. 

Anne would have all she’d ever dared dream of. A wife, a home, a sort of normalcy and legitimacy she was always terrified she would be denied until now.

Mariana would take her as her wife, and she would take Mariana. A fine match indeed. 

* * *

But then Charles Lawton came along and took Mariana instead.

Anne had heard of heartbreak, had seen it on the faces of Eliza and Tib as she left them; but she had never understood it. 

Not until the night Mariana told her of new life plans that left Anne on the periphery, waiting, instead of beside her. That night, and the nights following, the understood it perfectly well. She curled at Mariana’s feet, sobbing, begging, pleading, but Mariana was firm. This was for the best, apparently. They would wait until Charles died and then, _then_  they could be together. 

It was wretched, but Anne convinced herself it would be worth the wait.

* * *

 

She donned black the day after the wedding. Mariana scolded her, said she was being dramatic; but Mariana’s scolding over Anne’s choice of dress was something she’d long since learnt to live with. If Mariana felt uncomfortable about Anne’s sudden, mysterious period of mourning- well. Maybe she would begin to understand a glimmer of Anne’s own discomfort whenever she now visited the new Mrs Lawton in her grand new home. 

She still visited, of course. But it was hard, so hard, to see Mariana so easy and quickly fill the role with Charles that she had once promised to fill with Anne.

Their trysts at night continued on Anne’s visits, of course; but they were marred now by Mariana’s exit afterwards- her silent escape from Anne’s bed the moment she thought Anne was asleep. 

Still. 

Anne would rather take these precious moments with Mariana than no moments at all. 

* * *

 

The plan had, in the early days of Anne’s denial of the situation, seemed potentially feasible: they would wait out the years until Charles died and then be together. It was awful, of course, but Anne was bereft and confused and happy to take what she could get of Mariana Belcolmbe (no, Mariana _Lawton_ ) she could get. 

But years passed and while Charles was old, he still seemed no _older._ Not like Anne, who felt weariness in her bones as time went on and she got no closer to the life she had once so eagerly planned. 

Mariana was still filled with whispered promises in the dark, but Anne was _tired_. She still loved Mariana, and suspected she always would, in some way or another, but whispers and dreams were no longer enough. 

* * *

 

Mariana scolded her once more on her last visit to Lawton hall before she left to travel. She was being dramatic, _again_ , and she’d come crawling back, _again_.

Anne wondered if she was right as she boarded the carriage. All the years and she still donned the mourning black; grieving a woman and a life she had lost so very long ago.

But no.

She would travel, find herself and along the way, a woman who might just fill the role even better than Mariana promised to. A woman who might, if she was lucky, bring colour back to Anne’s life.  

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d and unresearched. I’m so LAZY, yo.


	4. Maria Barlow: Almost (Sweet Music)

_“I’m almost me again_

_She’s almost you.”_

_-_ Almost (Sweet Music),

Hozier

 

* * *

Maria is beautiful. She is beautiful and cultured; full of history and wonderful architecture and- wait. 

No, Paris is beautiful and cultured and historical. Maria is....not Mariana. Which is a good thing, probably. It’s why she’s here, in Paris, instead of in London.

But there are moments when Maria’s hair catches the light in a certain way, or she laughs with her head tilted back at just the right angle, and Anne can feel her heart plummet thirty feet in her chest at the sight and sound of it because, for a second, she forgets.

But then Maria will right herself again, turn her head back or fix her curls, and Anne remembers. 

Maria is not Mariana. And this is a good thing. 

Probably.

* * *

Two years go by quickly in Paris with Maria by her side. They’re a poor match, Anne knows this. Maria is a widow, a station below Anne with friends and family nowhere near connected enough for Anne to seriously consider a proper relationship with Maria. 

She even forgets Mariana, sometimes. As time passes, the breaks in between thinking of her get longer and longer, and Anne can see the perks of life without her. She strides around the city with her head held high, unashamed once more of her oddness and eccentricities. Maria, for her part, is delighted by them; nothing seems to please her more than watching Anne attract wide eyed looks from passers-by. Maria has lived a live of boring conventiality until now, and Anne is all too happy to break her free of it. 

It helps, too, that Maria _is_ rather lovely to look at. She’s also patient and kind, and puts up with Anne’s hours of studying, of coming back to her rooms with blood and human waste on her from her day with the surgeon. She listens warmly to Anne’s frenetic re-telling of that day’s autopsy without looking at all squeamish or telling her she’s odd, as Mariana might once have done.

Maria is a wonderful break, a pause in Anne’s wanderings and dreams of matrimony. No, she is decidedly not wife material. But Anne didn’t come to Paris for a wife.

She just came to study anatomy. 

  


	5. Vere Hobart: Jackie and Wilson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vere Hobart: Jackie and Wilson

_"Start digging up the yard for what's left of me in our little vignette_  
_For whatever poor soul is coming next"_

_\- Jackie and Wilson,_

Hozier

* * *

 

 Anne should probably be concerned, she knows this. Looking over the family finances, the balances of what’s going in and coming out, she knows they’re running out of money. Not just yet, not immediately- but it’s an issue she’ll need to find an answer for sometime in the next few years.

It’s a good thing Vere Hobart is curled up in bed next to her, completely unaware of the ring Anne had procured, tucked into the drawer of the bedside table. 

 

* * *

 

Vere is simply wonderful. Not only is she perfectly matched with Anne in a practical sense- money, status, and education; but Anne actually  _likes_ her- very close to loves her, not that she lets her heart get that far any more. But they're a good match, and Anne is sure that Vere will fit very well with what she needs.

Aunt Anne won't live forever, and Anne knows she must return to Shibden. She had thought,  _hoped_ , that she would return with a wife by her side. Someone who would be welcomed by her family, a friend to take some of the stress out of Aunt Anne's head about who was to care for Anne once she was gone. It was an image first filled by Eliza, then Mariana, and has warped and changed over the years. These days, Anne can just about make out the hazy outline of each paramour she comes across in the daydream. She doesn't mind much any more, so long as they make her happy enough, and buffer out her pursestrings. 

And Vere does both those things wonderfully. She could make Anne very happy, and Anne her; she's sure of it.

So Anne doesn’t waste any time in sourcing a ring from a nearby jeweller in Hastings, preparing to ask Vere to become her wife. She is confident in her intent, and for the first time in many years, _excited_. Vere is not like the others. For Vere, she may be able to finally rid herself of these mourning clothes, and have the happy life she was beginning to think impossible.

Vere will say yes, and mean it. 

Vere Hobart will be her wife. 

 

* * *

 

Vere Hobart will not be her wife. 

Anne comes downstairs one morning to find a man- a handsome one, yes, but a _man_ nonetheless- in her seat at the table beside Vere.

She takes one look at Vere’s face and knows just what she’s about to hear. 

She only half listens. She’s heard it before, after all. 

 

* * *

 

Vere is sorrowful and heartbroken; begs Anne to stay out the summer with her. The engagement is new, the wedding won’t happen for months, they still have _time_. 

Except Anne doesn’t.

Each moment she spends with Vere, with the ring burning a hole in her pocket, is another reminder of her failings. Of how no matter how charming she is, how intelligent or kind, no matter how much she loves, the life she knows God intended her to live is simply too hard for the women she loves. It’s a reminder she has been given, time and time again.

And after all her years tracing the globe, all her attempts to find a love willing to risk what she is, all the pieces of her heart she's given away, she's running out of money and time.

 

* * *

 

She is on the road back to Halifax before dawn one morning.

She squares her jaw and looks pointedly forward as the carriage draws away. Vere was just another bump on the road, Anne decides, as she pushes down any feelings she was naive enough to have. Vere was a reminder of why hope should never supersede pragmatics and planning. Vere was naught but a mistake she will not be foolish enough to make again. 

No, she will not seek out an equal in Halifax. She will do as many of her peers do, those she's looked down on derisively over the years. She will  _settle._ Seeking a match of love and passion is a fool's errand, and Anne Lister no longer has the time nor means to play the fool.

She will find a naive, rich young girl, one who will follow her blindly down any path she walks; and she will marry her. 

She may not be happy, but she will be comfortable. She will give the small part of her heart she has left to part with, enough for kindness and the patience to live out her days with whoever she first sees to meet the ends she seeks. It's not quite what she'd envisioned, but that vision had long since faded and Vere was a good reminder of that. 

The ring stays where she left it in the bedside table. She has no use for it now.


	6. Ann Walker part 1: Someone New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My sweetest angel Ann Walker gets more than one song because she is my love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first part is set at the beginning of their courtship, when Anne still thinks she is merely the seductor and is not in fact being thoroughly seduced. Poor Anne.

_”There's an art to life's distractions_  
_To somehow escape the burning weight_  
_The art of scraping through_  
_Some like to imagine_  
_The dark caress of someone else  
I guess any thrill will do_”

 _-_ Someone New

Hozier 

 

* * *

 

Ann Walker walks quietly into her life and takes a seat there without Anne even noticing. 

One minute, Anne is back in Shibden being greeted and scolded by her father, sister, Aunt, even the wary eyes of dear Argus. 

The next she walks into the sitting room and find herself greeted by one of the most exquisite creatures she's ever seen. 

It’s immediately evident to Anne that this girl is half crushed by the world around her. She’s all hunched shoulders and averted eyes and Anne can almost forgive herself for casting her aside as simpering and silly all those years ago- but then she takes Ann’s hand in hers and catches her eyes and _oh._ There’s an intelligence there, and a depth that Anne had certainly not been expecting. 

Perhaps not so arduous and simpering as Anne had remembered, then. She could work with quiet and demure; particularly if it came with a purse as deep and face a pretty as Miss Ann Walker’s. 

This, thought Anne to herself, would do quite nicely indeed. 

* * *

 

Ann Walker quickly becomes a semi-permanent fixture, much to Anne’s delight. She was expecting to have to work slightly harder to fall into the girl’s social circle- Ann was younger, and had several friends (well, cousins, it transpired) living in Halifax to amuse her.

But she was always delighted to see Anne, and Anne herself couldn’t help but feel a shiver of anticipation whenever a day arrived when she’d be seeing the younger woman. 

Only because her plan was working so well, of course. How could she not be excited to see the girl when it was so evident that Ann was falling for her rather more quickly than expected? A successful venture had always quickened Anne’s blood and this, after all, was one of her most important ventures yet. 

* * *

 

It helped, too, that Ann was rather more bright and interesting than Anne first thought.

Days when she wasn’t seeing Miss Walker were filled with such mundane tasks and people that Anne soon found herself looking  _forward_ to seeing the girl. She would listen so intently to what Anne had to say (a trait shared, Anne had to admit, with many)- but would consider and examine what was being said and regularly surprised Anne with the depth of her insights and questions. Occasionally it felt less like Anne was lecturing and more like she was _conversing_. To some this would be a normal event, but to Anne? A rarity indeed. 

* * *

She hadn’t meant to break anything, nor to hurt herself.

But her reaction to Ann’s news- that she was going away for weeks ( _weeks!)_ had shocked her. Her stomach felt as though it was dropping out and her hands clenched involuntarily. Her gasp had been one not of pain, but of surprise at the way her heart seemed to clench along with them. 

It clenched again at the look Ann gave her as she said any gift from Anne would be just as treasured as one from Harriet, and in that moment, Anne knew two things:

1\. Her heart was a traitor, and would need to be firmly clamped down upon should this go any further, and

2\. She would need to move faster than she’d thought. 

* * *

 

“I think you’re a little bit in love with me.” She whispers one night, and feels surprisingly bad about how shocked Ann looks at the statement. This is a steep learning curve for anyone, Anne knows from experience. But coming to an understanding yourself and having that understanding thrust upon you by someone else are two seperate things entirely. Her apologies to Ann immediately after- for making her uncomfortable, for going to far- are given with more meaning than intended and Anne is shocked at the burden of guilt and worry she feels in the days after Ann’s left for the lakes. Could she have actually overstepped mark? Surely not. She was overthinking, over planning.

(She was certainly not missing Ann. That would just be foolish. She is merely missing the distraction Ann brings to her days.) 

Still, she knows she’d better check. Just make sure she is still in Ann’s good graces.

So, she has her bags and carriage packs and heads for the Lake District. She tells herself it’s for the plan, for the future of Shibden and the sinking of the coal pit; and ignores the traitorous flutter of her heart every mile the horses cover. 

She’s not  in love  with Ann Walker. Ann Walker is in love with  her. 


	7. An Aside, by Ann Walker (Work Song)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Ann Walker just gotta pop in and write a chapter about Anne while she pines in Scotland. I don't make the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for Self-harm and Suicide. This isn’t the happy chapter.

_"When my time comes around_  
 _Lay me gently in the cold dark earth_  
 _No grave can hold my body down_  
 _I'll crawl home to her_ "

_\- Work Song,_

_Hozier_

 

* * *

Scotland is cold. This is the first thing Ann becomes aware of. 

The last two days have been a perpetual state of grey, ever since the carriage drew away from Halifax and carried her from Anne. 

They tell her it’s for the best. Her family, Anne, the  _voices,_ but she doesn’t know who she can trust or believe in any more. 

She loves Anne. Wants to marry Anne, to be her wife.

But then she closes her eyes she can see the fire and the brimstone and the gallows and she knows, knows, _knows_  that what she’s been told all her life is right. That she’s sick, she’s weak, that she doesn’t know what’s best for her own health. 

She had a moment- a glimmer- of hope that those around her were wrong when she met Anne. That she could make decisions for herself; that her mind was far sharper and her constitution far stronger than her tribe always said. 

But she knows now she was wrong. She was being seduced by the devil, the voices said, and she would take Anne with her. They would burn, or she would leave.

So she left. 

Her eyes blankly take in the cold landscape as the carriage draws nearer her sister’s home. It’s grey. 

She closes her eyes. 

* * *

She thought she might hear from Anne eventually. Some news of her travels, the people she’s met. 

She doesn’t receive a word. 

Ann herself writes letters. Dozens of them, detailing every thought and emotion she has when she thinks of the brunette and their time together. 

And, once she has signed and sealed each letter, she places it into the fire to burn. 

She may have saved their souls by rejecting Anne, but she’s not sure now what’s left of her. 

* * *

She starts hiding in her room. She hears the children ask Elizabeth what’s wrong with her one afternoon; after another walk by the lake where she had barely spoken or even acknowledged the presence of her niece and nephew, or even the babe clutched to her chest. 

She hears Elizabeth start to explain, but she doesn’t stay to hear the rest. She retreats to her room, pulls out her papers. Instead of writing, however, for the first time since arriving in Scotland, she begins to draw. 

 

* * *

The voices recede, and her mood begins to fluctuate. Some days, the grey turns red. She’s angry;  _furious_ , at all of them. At the tribe for controlling her. At Anne for putting ideas in her head and ripping them away without a further word when Ann needs her most. At herself, for pushing Anne away. 

Some days, she will draw picture upon picture of Anne, only to cover it entirely with charcoal upon completion. She more times she covers the woman’s face, she thinks, the further away the memories of that face should fade. 

It doesn’t work. Anne stays, stark in her memory, and the red fades again to grey as the day draws to a close.

Those are the nights she still lets herself cry. 

* * *

Eventually the grey and red fade entirely. All that’s left is the image of Anne’s face imprinted in her brain and the feel of her lips against Ann’s heart. 

It seems that even time and distance won’t rid her of the woman. 

* * *

It strikes her on a Tuesday that she’ll never see Anne Lister again.

She will spend her days here, in this room; until George’s frustrations and impatience get the better of him and he makes her join them for dinner. She will be re-introduced to his cousin. 

She will marry him. And she will never see Anne again. 

She stares into the mirror, not fully able to comprehend this shell of a person staring back. She looks distraught, she thinks distantly. Does she always look like this now? She doesn’t feel it. She hasn’t felt  _anything_ for so long now that even the thought of marrying a stranger doesn’t effect her. The thought of never seeing Anne’s smile again barely stings; and even the glass shards cutting into her hand (had she really been clutching onto the glass that tightly?) takes a few moments to hurt. 

But the blood. 

Well. 

The blood kickstarts something in her she didn’t know she had.

* * *

As the deep crimson starts running down her palm she is struck with a sudden realisation. 

She will not see Anne Lister again- not in this life. 

But the voices were right. Because of her love for Anne- that unnatural, _beautiful_ love that she is unable to give up on- after this life she is destined to eternal hellfire. 

But it’s an eternity with Anne by her side, at least. 

She may not have Anne in her arms again on earth; but safely buried beneath it, she will wait to be reunited. She will wait for Anne to join her; and she will see her again. 

For the the first time in months, she feels hopeful. 

 

She picks up a shard of glass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes.


	8. Ann Walker Part 2: Take me to church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, sinners. What a Ride

* * *

_“No masters or kings when the ritual begins_  
_There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_  
_In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene_  
_Only then I am human_  
_Only then I am clean_  
_Amen, Amen, Amen”_

* * *

The air between them is light on the way to church. Anne can’t keep her eyes away from the younger woman for long, and each time she catches blue eyes with hers she can’t help the smile that threatens to break out. Ann is no better, barely holding back giggles of glee as she casts her eyes over Anne’s face. 

They hold hands gently in the back of the carriage, fingers entwined until Anne gives a gentle squeeze and pulls from her pocket the Onyx ring she’s had with her for months now. She glances up at her betrothed to gauge her reaction- the last time Ann had seen the ring had not been during an entirely happy circumstance, after all- but she looks positively overjoyed, and her grin only grows as it’s slipped onto her finger, followed swiftly by a kiss to the knuckle. 

Ann follows suit with a simple silver band she’d had made for Anne, and despite a slight hiccup sliding it on, the entire affair is over in a matter of moments. 

It’s incredible, Anne thinks, as she takes in the sight of Ann glancing shyly out the window before leaning forward for a kiss, how one of the most important moments of their lives could be over so quickly. 

A blink of an eye; but quite an unforgettable blink. 

 

* * *

Ann has always been a deeply religious woman. Arguably too religious, recent circumstances might lead one to believe. 

She has spent hours at church, clutching on to each word of the service; searching through her bible each night for guidance and hope. In harder times her knees have become bruised for the time she has spent by the bed, praying for higher council. 

But today, she finds herself unable to take in a single word of the service. 

Instead, she takes in with reverence the woman beside her. Anne is ostensibly watching the priest; but she can see warm brown eyes glance at her and a lightly raises eyebrow if she becomes too obvious with her stares. 

Still, Ann cannot draw her eyes away for more than a second. Anne is dressed in the most handsome of blues, and Ann had found herself almost preening with pride at walking into the church on her arm. She knows that none of the other parishioners know why they’re here- knows that none can know- but can’t bring herself to care. Today she will be making the holiest of vows in front of the lord.

She is already wearing Anne’s ring, and taking the sacrament will finally seal the fate she knows she’s been hurtling towards ever since she first saw Anne all those years ago. 

For all she wishes the priest would hurry up and speed to the blessings, she finds instead that time seems to slow the closer they get. She is nervous, which is not unexpected; but she’s also happier than she’s felt in years and the feeling only increases when Anne’s hand finds hers on the wooden bench between their bodies. Anne’s thumb strokes lightly over the ring newly placed on her finger, and Ann feels the last of her nerves melt away as she tries to listen once more to this week’s verses being read. 

 

* * *

 Ann’s nerves come back as they make their way to the altar. Anne can see them written all over her face the moment they stand to exit the pew, and it’s all she can do not to pull the woman to her and reassure her with a gentle kiss the way she would had they been alone.

Instead, she lets her eyes linger on the younger woman, trying to convey as much warmth and joy and hope as she can before they begin their walk with the other parishioners. 

She is not worried, however, as she may have been months, even a few weeks ago. She knows Ann won’t back out again; that these nerves are not ones of doubt over the choice they are making today but rather ones of excitement for the journey they are about to partake together. 

There is nothing light about this moment; these steps they take together towards the priest. This, Anne knows, is not a choice made lightly.

It’s not a choice made at all. Not for her, nor for Ann. Some may say it is a sin; to love the way they do; but Anne knows this to be untrue. She is made as God intended her to be and as she gets to her knees with Ann beside her, she knows that there is no greater gift they can give back to Him than this moment. This is a ritual far more important than all other sacraments she has taken thus far. 

 

As she accepts the water and sips the wine, she feels a lightness fill her. 

 

As she stands and looks at Ann, she feels that lightness expand and fill her chest. All at once she feels a freedom she’s never experienced in her life. 

 

And as their fingers tangle together, walking side by side back to the pews, she knows this freedom, this sense of _humanity_ , will not leave her again so long as she has her wife by her side.

 

 

 

_Fin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for putting up with me being a gratuitous sap for this entire journey. The mistakes are all mine as I edited it myself and probably not very well. I’m sorry it took so long, and I hope this fic gave you even 1% of the gay feels it gave me while writing.

**Author's Note:**

> (This is 10000% unbeta'd and also mostly unresearched. I just really really like anne lister and hozier, okay??)


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